


il vaut mieux improviser

by telekinetics



Category: An American in Paris - Gershwin/Lucas
Genre: M/M, but like thas canon so.................., evry1s gay nd sad esp adam, this took a bitch six months bc i abandoned it but yk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 11:34:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11274594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinetics/pseuds/telekinetics
Summary: He glanced down at the journal peeking out of his coat pocket, and a perilous idea started formulating in his mind, exhausting and exhilarating, that maybe he didn’t need the entire world to approve of who he loved. Maybe he justneeded to love.





	il vaut mieux improviser

_ART._

_(noun)_

_the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination._

(JANUARY 27th, 1946) 

When he was five years old, Adam Hochberg hummed more than he spoke. 

Sometimes, it was something he’d picked up from the streets of New York City herself. Other times, it was a tune he’d heard back home at their synagogue, the melody making him feel all the more grounded, all the more _safe._

Most of the time, however, it was whatever happened to fly into his head. The notes seemed to flock to Adam, they always had, they always would. 

Except for right now, apparently. 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, and stifling a tired yawn. At least the ballet was finished. One less worry on his mind, but one more wrinkle on his forehead. He squinted against the low lighting of the pub, wondering vaguely just how late it was. He needed to finish this by tomorrow, Milo and Henri needed this by _tomorrow._

Hell, by now, _tomorrow_ was probably today. 

He wished he could pinpoint the exact moment that this had gotten so difficult.

Yes, when he was five years old, Adam Hochberg hummed more than he spoke. He rarely ever sang— words weren’t a problem per se, but back then melody was easier to get out, and maybe it still was— but he had always hummed. He still did; it was his go-to method of relaxation when everything seemed to be too much. 

(A dreary January evening in an almost empty bar didn’t really read _too much_ to most people but, then again, by societal standards, he wasn’t exactly _most people.)_

Eventually, he grew out of the not talking bit. He talked a lot, actually. He talked a lot because he knew most people weren’t listening in the first place, and something, _something,_ had to fill up the empty space. Maybe it was better that they never payed attention to him. Maybe it was better that he never payed attention to himself. He was scared of people who actually listened. Terrified that someone might be able to see through the collected façade he’d been building up for as long as he could remember. But it was okay, because nobody ever _actually_ listened. 

Except for Henri. Henri listened.

Go fucking figure.

He knew he would have continued to wallow in despair had it not been for Jerry sliding into the booth beside him and reaching forward to finish the last of his whiskey. Adam shot him a withering look but made no move to chastise him, opting instead to close his notebook and lean back. 

“You haven’t finished.” It wasn’t phrased like a question. Adam scoffed.

“Ye of little faith,” was all he said in response, rolling his eyes and tugging on his jacket.

“So you _have_ finished?”

“Define finished.”

Jerry cracked a smile at that; he always had had a soft spot for Adam’s retorts. _That was another symptom of not really listening_ , Adam mused. _Not seeing. Not knowing._

“Y’know the wedding’s tomorrow, right?”

“Oh, do I _ever.”_

They settled into a thick silence after that. Jerry knew, Adam _knew_ that Jerry knew, but that didn’t make it any easier to come to terms with. It made it harder, actually, like he’d given an enemy soldier key information on their battle plan and now everything had gone to hell because of that one tiny detail he’d let slip. He winced. Thinking of wartime, even in the form of a loose analogy, wasn’t ever easy. 

“Are you okay?” Jerry asked, gently, and, geez, Adam _hated_ when he got serious.

“I’ll make it in time, I’m just a little behind.” He shrugged, knowing Jerry would see right through him and feeling suddenly uncomfortable and naked in his light sweater.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah, I know.” Adam divulged, leaning forwards and placing his elbows on the table. “You want what everyone else wants— deeper meaning. Hell, I do too. That’s what art’s about, right? Making ya think?” He snorted. “Not today, Mulligan. Hate to break it to you, but what you see is what you get: I’m here, in a pub at two in the morning, writing a song for a wedding and _he’s_ with _her._ Am I okay? ‘Course. Just peachy.”

With that, he placed the discarded pencil behind his ear, grabbed the moleskine notebook, and stood up, leaving Jerry behind to contemplate his absence. It was better that Adam didn’t indulge him. He wasn’t in the mood for an hour long talk about ‘his feelings’ or whatever right now. Besides, it was late, and Jerry actually had someone to come home to. Someone who loved him and cared for him. Someone who chose him.

_In a way, I was chosen,_ he thought wryly, a bitter smile finding its way onto his chapped lips. _Chosen to write this song._

The cool air nipped at his exposed neck as he marched down the streets of a perpetually awake Paris, and Adam would have reproached himself for forgetting his scarf, but he couldn’t really find it in himself to care. All of this— the ballet, the wedding, the song— it was nearly numbing. Every single nerve in his body had been dulled. It’s like he was asleep. Asleep, and desperate to wake up, to _feel._

He sat down on the front steps of his building, placing his head in his hands. 

This was Henri’s _second_ time being engaged. It had come as a surprise to all of them, not just because it didn’t align with their preconceived notions of the cabaret singer’s preferences, but also because his fiancée was _Milo Davenport_. Adam didn’t even know they had been acquaintances, much less had _dated,_ before they announced their upcoming nuptials.

Jerry had choked on his water when he had found out, coughing out a cheap _congratulations_. Lise had been surprised, Lord, they _all_ had been surprised, but she was the first to recover, rushing over to hug and kiss and rejoice with Milo, who seemed all the more happy after her show of affection _._ Adam had just chuckled amicably, convinced it was a joke that the other two were suckers for believing. But then Henri had given him one of those megawatt smiles of his and handed them all invitations to the event, pulling him aside from the group and confiding his desire for Adam to write a song for him to perform at the ceremony. And all the composer could do was stay still and listen intently as his world shifted completely. 

In retrospect, he hadn’t really _known_ back then. 

It was funny, _hilarious_ , actually, how blind he had been to what now felt so inherently _his._ And, well, that was the thing about Adam— he silenced his heart, always. It made everything safer. It made him work better.

(Cut to a tune on a piano, too slow, too somber, suddenly brightened up, lively, because of a pair brown eyes and a smile, and Adam was gone, he was _gone.)_

He swallowed, sitting down on a park bench, shuffling the snow with his shoes. Maybe this didn’t have anything to do with Henri. Maybe he was just tired. After all, this exact kind of mental block had happened once before, with the ballet. Maybe he was just losing his touch. 

Maybe he never had had any.

He rolled his eyes. This was ridiculous. _He_ was ridiculous. He knew he was talented. Fine. _One_ of his songs hadn’t worked. So what? All he had gotten wrong was the tempo. And, _yeah,_ the ballet had taken him a while to finish, but he _had_ finished it. And he was going to finish this song, even if it _killed_ him.

He glanced down at the notebook, the dark cover contrasting against his knuckles, pale from clenching. Everything was gonna be _fine._

(JANUARY 25th, 1946)

_Henri Baurel,_ Adam reflected, _was probably the most ridiculous man alive._

The point in question: suits. A _lot_ of suits. _Expensive_ suits. Suits for Henri, dresses for Milo. Except, it was exactly three days before the wedding and neither of them were particularly ready. Oh, _sure,_ the banquet hall was all decked out, meticulously planned to the last orchid, but that was detached. Frigid, almost. Everything that made it all feel real had been ignored, which is why Adam tended to forget that there was gonna be a wedding in the first place. 

“How about this one?” Henri walked out, clad in a pale blue suit that Jerry said made him look like the goddamn easter bunny. Adam thought it made him look like he had been drenched in faded Tekhelet and put out to dry. 

“A keeper.” He sniped, hardly bothering to meet Henri’s eyes. “Can we go now?”

“No, _god,”_ Jerry interjected. “Listen, I don’t know anything about weddings but I know for a _fact_ that Milo won’t marry you if you show up at the chapel dressed like _that.”_

Henri looked into the mirror, contemplating that for a moment.

“Interesting.” He mused, before sighing heavily and trudging back into the dressing room. Adam and Jerry exchanged a look, but neither of them said anything, as was the usual when it came to anything surrounding this engagement. It wasn’t that they weren’t _happy_ for Henri and Milo, it wasn’t that _he_ wasn’t happy, but it all left him with a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, like this was wrong, like Henri was making a terrible mistake, like he belonged with someone else. 

Who? _Lise?_ Adam scoffed. _Hardly._

“You good?” Jerry shoved his shoulder, arching an eyebrow. 

“We’ve been in this store for three hours.” Adam replied, groaning and leaning all the way back into his chair until he was essentially lying down. “Couldn’t he have just done this with Milo?”

“Couldn’t he have gone suit shopping with his fiancée?” Jerry snorted. “Are you _kidding?_ They both refuse to see each other whenever wedding stuff is being covered. Bad vibes or luck or something.”

“Fine.” Adam dissented, folding his arms. “Lise, then.”

“She’s helping Milo with her dress.”

“How long have they been at that?”

“Five hours since we last saw them.”

“Great.” Adam rubbed his face, closing his eyes against the bright lighting. “You know what, Jerr? This is our fault. We’re the idiots who let the two pickiest, richest, most pretentious pair of socialites get engaged. In _Paris_ , no less.”

He knew Jerry would have come up with an admirable rejoinder to that, had he been given the chance, but their conversation was cut short by the sound of rapid fire french dancing off of a familiar tongue. He’d been hearing the language for so long, Adam momentarily forgot he couldn’t actually understand it. 

_“Ça marche, celui-ci?”_

“English, Henri,” Jerry reminded him with a gentle, and not unkind, laugh. The man in question blinked, before catching on to the moment and cracking a smile. 

“Right, yes, _au temps pour moi_ — eh, my bad.” Henri chuckled to himself, sliding his fingers down the suit’s lapels. This one was considerably less flashy, but still held a sort of regality and class that was reminiscent of Henri himself. It was sleek and black and fit just right, and, listen, Adam didn’t care about clothes, had never really cared about clothes, but _goddamn_ that was a good suit. “Does this one work?”

“ _Yeah.”_ Adam answered, maybe a bit too quickly, and Jerry snorted, looking between the two of them amusedly. “Y’know it’s— it’s nice. Whatever, can we go now?”

Henri raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything, something for which Adam was grateful, opting instead to turn his gaze towards to the mirror. It was obvious to tell that he liked the suit, but there was something in his eyes that was guarded, or hidden, and it threw Adam off kilter. 

For the first time since the announcement had first been given, it suddenly hit him that Henri was getting married. To _Milo_. He frowned, looking away from the groom to be and focusing his gaze on his knees. His stomach was all knotted up— had it been that way the whole time? Had he just not noticed?

“Hochberg,” Jerry nudged him, eyebrow raised with concern, “everything good?”

Adam opened his mouth— _everything’s fine, everything’s always fine, I’m always fine, I’m_ never _fine_ — and closed it, because some things were better left unsaid. He merely nodded, gave a weak smile, and leaned back in his chair. Henri hadn’t seemed to notice the disturbance, which relieved Adam slightly, not because this had anything to do with him— of course it didn’t— but he knew how Parisians were; nosy pricks. 

( _There may be a million Parisians, but there’s only one Henri Baurel,_ his brain supplied which didn’t particularly help Adam relax at all.)

“So, this one then?” Henri turned to his companions again, smoothing down the suit. 

“ _C’est magnifique!”_ Jerry supplied, already standing up. “I’m gonna go see how the girls are doing, keep you updated.” 

The door closed, a rush of cold air following it. Henri beamed, looked over to the mirror once more, then back to Adam, who was suddenly very interested in the boot scuff on the otherwise pristine floor. 

“I take it you’re not too fond of the suit.” Henri stated, and Adam still wasn’t looking at him but he could feel the touch of dismay in his tone. 

“It’s not the suit,” _you look fucking fantastic in the suit,_ “I’m just not a big shopper.”

“You mean...” Adam lifted his eyes; Henri had crinkled his nose in confusion and was pantomiming a relatively ridiculous one-sided karate match. He smiled, the first genuine expression of the day.

“ _No,_ not _chopper_ — shopper. Someone who likes shopping. So, like, you and Milo.” Adam provided, and deflated slightly at that. Henri’s eyes narrowed. 

“What?” He asked, worry and curiosity creeping into his face; for someone who spent half his life hiding, lying, Henri Baurel wore most of his emotions like he wore, _well,_ that suit. That is to say, that everything fit. It gave him a sort of naïvety the rest of their group had lost, but made him all the more real— and fake. He was a spectacle, but he was one you wanted to believe, wanted to watch. Adam could barely take his eyes off of him. 

“Nothin’,” was all he answered. Henri, eyebrow arched, carefully sat down next to him. 

“I do not think it is nothing.” He said, sincerely, and Adam snorted.

“Listen, I know English ain’t your first language, but did you skip the chapter on contractions all together?” He teased, lightly, but Henri kept his expression serious. Adam sobered, folding his arms, and he wasn’t sure whether it was the fact that he’d been stuck in this room for over four hours or if Henri and his concern had suddenly become too much not to say anything, but he needed to know, he felt like he was drowning, suffocating, and—

“Why are you marrying Milo?” He said it quickly, rushed through the words like he was walking barefoot on hot coals. Henri gave him a surprised look.

“What do you mean, _why?_ Because I love her, that’s why.” He gave a confused little laugh, brushing off the question, then stood, turning away from the composer.

“Like you loved Lise?” 

At that, Henri stopped. From where he was positioned, Adam couldn’t tell whether he was in shock or just angry, but his knuckles were clenched and quickly paling. They had made a wordless pact, all five of them, to never speak of the whole Lise affair _ever_ and Adam had just violated that contract. 

“That was different.” He said, simply, breathing out. “That was… that was very different.”

“Oh, what, is mother dearest not forcing this one upon you?” Adam sniped. “That’s a first.”

“The reason I was so intent on loving Lise,” Henri began, speaking slowly, although Adam was unsure if that was because he wanted to stress the points or if he hadn’t made up his mind what said points were just yet. “Was because of everything that went on during the war. Paris was chaotic and my family kept her safe and I felt a sense of duty. I know it was wrong to do that. Unfair to both her and me.” He turned to Adam and forced a smile on his face. “That’s in the past. Here I am, getting married for real. Because I love Milo.”

“Henri, _it’s me._ We’re _friends._ You don’t have to—”

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you!”

“The _truth_ , for one—”

“That _is_ the truth.” Henri yelled, and there was something so helpless in his tone that made Adam wither. “That _is_ the truth.”

Looking back, deep down— they both knew. They both _had_ to. 

“...it’s none of my business, anyway. I’m sorry.” He said, after a few minutes. Henri shrugged, breathed in through his nose, and shot him a watery smile.

“I went a little cranky as well.”

“I… think you mean _crazy.”_

“No, no, I’m pretty sure I got that one right.” Henri assured him, and Adam gave him a small grin, which was returned to him solemnly. They had their arguments, their large scale blowouts, but they could always find themselves again, could always return to their amicable banter and shared smiles. 

“You’re right,” Adam chuckled, before clearing his throat and taking on a rough interpretation of Henri’s accent, “I’m just trying to prick you.”

And, well, that was that. They didn’t talk about the implications of what Adam demanded Henri reveal to him, and, in turn, they didn’t even touch upon the subject as to why he had cared in the first place. Jerry walked in not moments after, the atmosphere having softened somewhat, and both he and Henri remained oblivious to the turmoil currently squeezing Adam’s chest into knot so tight that he could barely breathe. 

Having gotten what he had supposedly been searching for, Henri beamed at them both and sauntered back into the dressing room. Milo was going to fall head over heels for that suit. _Finally, something she and Henri could both love_ , he thought bitterly. 

“You look awful.” Jerry stated, in that blunt way of his that drove Adam mad. He seemed to have no time for games, no tolerance for what was not right in front of him. He was, in some way, frenetic, nonstop, going after what he wanted in a way that made him seem almost selfish. Reckless, aiming to be honest, but never mean. Not on purpose, at the very least. 

“Just what a guy wants to hear.” He replied, yawning. “You’re a real charmer, Mulligan.”

“Resident charmer’s currently off undressing.” Jerry answered, not skipping a beat, and Adam could feel his face grow hot. “And, I mean, if that’s what you’re _looking_ for…”

“You’re a goddamn riot.” He extended his arm, an indication for Jerry to help him up, then leaned most of his weight away from his bad leg and onto his friend’s shoulder, turning to face the door of the dressing room impatiently. “Henri, I swear to god, if you’re trying on _another_ suit—”

“ _J’ai fini,_ ” Henri breathed out, emerging from the partitions that had previously been separating them, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. The suit was folded neatly and hung loosely on his arm. “Let me go pay.” 

Adam rolled his eyes, sitting back down and dragging Jerry along with him this time, watching with a kind of annoyance that was laced with flashes of fondness as the aspiring singer glided off to the lady sitting in front of the cashier. Henri seemed to float everywhere he went, like he was dancing on a cloud, to music that nobody else could hear. It’d been so long since Adam had looked or felt that at ease while moving. He felt something take hold in him, like when he had watched Lise dance in his ballet— but, no, nothing like that, nothing at all. 

Jerry snorted. 

Adam, startled out of his reverie, shifted his eyes towards him, accusingly. Jerry, who had followed his gaze, was currently smirking down at his knees, like he wanted to say something, had been wanting to say something for a while, but simply hadn’t, and the mischievous, knowing glint in his eyes _scared_ him. 

“What?” Adam said, leaning away from him, eyebrow raised, pointedly. Jerry looked up at him, feigning surprise. 

“Nothing.” He replied, and they could have left it at that, _should’ve_ left it at that.

“No, not nothing,” was what Adam Hochberg answered, instead. “Tell me. I like being entertained.”

Jerry, hesitant, let his eyes flick over to to Henri, still waiting in line, far enough away that he was definitely not able to hear either of them. Even so, he lowered his voice before asking—

“Are you really going to just sit there and watch him get married to her?”

And, there it was again; that feeling in his gut that seemed to be squeezing the life out of him. His breath hitched in his throat, he had no idea _why,_ it just did, and, _god,_ Jerry was no fool, but sometimes he just had some really _stupid_ questions.

“Why wouldn’t I?” He said, a little louder than he originally intended, and drawing the attention of several casual shoppers strolling around the boutique. He shifted closer to Jerry, away from the prying eyes of upper class Parisians. “He’s happy.”

“He’s _dying_ inside, Adam.” Jerry corrected, incredulously. “This is killing every single nerve in his body, he doesn’t want to go through with it any more than he wanted to go through with his engagement to Lise.”

“You’re kidding,” Adam shook his head, looking over to Henri, who was absentmindedly running his fingers over a section of the suit. A nervous tick he had picked up from Adam himself. “H-He’s ecstatic.”

“You know,” Jerry scoffed, “I _really_ thought you knew him better than that.”

“Oh, and you know _so_ much about other people, right?” Adam sneered, growing exasperated. “If you’re so damn wise, then tell me— in your own made up world, why wouldn’t I want Henri to get married to Milo?”

“Because you’re in love with him.” 

It was with that simple phrase, that Adam felt his perspective on everything— the wedding, _the wedding_ — suddenly fall out of place. He opened his mouth to speak, to deny, to make sure that Jerry and Henri and every single person in this sappy excuse for a regular store knew that, if he ever were to fall in love, it would _not_ be with Henri Baurel. Not annoyingly optimistic, obliviously intrusive Henri Baurel. Not loud, brash, yet quietly consistent Henri Baurel. Not sweet, charming, bright, chipper, talented, beautiful Henri Baurel.

Henri, _his Henri_ —

_Milo’s Henri._

And, just like that, he felt like he was falling, drowning, lost at sea; like Jerry _had_ thrown a lifesaver, but had launched it too far, too late, and now everything that could have been done to save him had failed, and it was _his_ fault for jumping head first into the water, in the first place. 

He stayed in that state for a while, indignant and shaken and upset, and Jerry could do little but look at his friend, sympathy radiating off of him. In that moment, Adam felt a keen hatred for him, for this whole damn country, and _maybe_ if he had just learned to stay where he had been, to keep his feet on the ground and make something useful of himself like his parents had always wanted him to do, then none of this would have happened. He licked his lips, the silence louder than a sonorous sonata. 

“Ignore me.” Jerry suddenly said, and it was only now that Adam notice the level of concern and care hidden beneath his _told you so_ attitude. “What the hell do I know about anything.”

“I need to go.” He hadn’t planned on saying that, _really,_ he hadn’t, and he knew it would only make Jerry feel worse about the situation, not to say seem suspicious to Henri and the others. 

“Adam, no—” Jerry watched as he made a move to stand up, only to gently grab his arm. “I didn’t mean anything by it, okay! I’m being silly. Adam— Adam, _please_ —”

“Don’t.” He croaked out, now standing very, very still, breathing in and out and in and out and in _and in and in and in and_ — “Maybe you should stay _out_ of other people’s business.”

Jerry winced, and let his arm fall limp on their seats. From his vantage point, he could see Adam heaving, knees shaky, and he wondered for a brief moment whether this was because he’d never considered being in love. It was a lot to come to terms with, in certain ways, and if Adam was anything like Jerry— and some would say that the two got along so splendidly because, in ways, he _was_ — then if he had ever been aware of the feelings he reserved for Henri, he’d probably have done something ill-timed or foolish had he been acting on them. 

“Adam—”

“I said _don’t._ ” 

Jerry, feeling helpless, was unable to ignore the acute pinches of guilt and regret spreading throughout his body.

(because, _hell,_ maybe he was wrong.) 

(deep down, he knew he wasn’t, but that was neither here nor there, because Adam was _hurting_ and Adam was _leaving_ and here stood Jerry Mulligan, stuck in the middle of a love story in which neither of the recipients knew they were the goddamn protagonists and maybe, _maybe,_ he was just getting a little _damn_ tired of the world’s notion that if you found a passion, something that made your heart sing, you shouldn’t go after it for fear of falling short.) 

Jerry Mulligan didn’t say any of this. He didn’t dare breathe it, couldn’t bring himself to whisper the words for fear that he’d accidentally write history. It’s a big responsibility, he reckoned, to have stayed in Paris after the war. Bombs and gunshots and conflict and blood and _hate,_ so much _hate,_ destroyed what must have been refined culture, and they’re the ones left to _do_ something, to fix the damage, but, no, the city is much too preoccupied; playing games, picking out clothes, choosing color schemes. They’ve been given the chance to change the world and yet here they all are— _dormant._

(JANUARY 27th, 1946)

_“Zut alors, avez-vous la monnaie pour le métro?”_

Adam barely registered the words as they were thrown at him, and he turned on his heels, much too late, eyebrows furrowed and brain feeling too blank and fuzzy to decipher the so-called language of love. 

“¿ _Qué?”_

The phrase felt familiar. He hadn’t said it in a while. It was only after the passerby had squinted down at him confusedly that Adam remembered it _wasn’t_ French.

_“Euh, comment?”_ He corrected, tentatively, and he knew the words were right but, to him, they tasted wrong. 

The woman who had spoken to him let out a lilting laugh, not necessarily unkindly, but in a way that still made Adam’s face heat up with embarrassment. He shrugged, politely, as she repeated her question, and from what he could understand, which, well, wasn’t much, he reasoned that she most likely needed change for the metro. 

“Don’t worry about it, American,” her accent was heavy, reminiscent of someone else’s, someone who he was trying too hard not to think about, “it’s much too late to be out and about anyways! _il faut qu'on les deux parte pour nos affaires demain.”_

He wrinkled his nose, but didn’t ask for a translation, instead watching as she threw him a coquettish wink and strolled off into the dark night. Maybe if he were someone else, he would have chased her down, made her his, found reassurance in the curve of her lips, but all he felt following the encounter was disgust at himself, for not wanting it, for craving the opposite of what was expected of him. 

Except, _except,_ the world seemed to be loosening its reins on its expectations. Slowly, things were being put back together, but _some_ concepts, those that weren’t allowed before, were suddenly being pushed through the cracks— and, well, wasn’t that how the light got in?

He glanced down at the journal peeking out of his coat pocket, and a perilous idea started formulating in his mind, exhausting and exhilarating, that maybe he didn’t need the entire world to approve of who he loved. Maybe he just _needed to love_. 

He loved Henri. 

He _loves_ Henri. 

As soon as the thought finished crossing through his mind, like a shooting star passes through the sky, or a comet that goes through it’s orbit, Adam felt himself take in a staggering breath, and smile. His chest felt open, his heart felt light, and he let out a small, simple, unbelieving laugh, because it was all so _damn_ easy. 

And, yes, the wedding was tomorrow. But if Jerry had been right about him, then he had to have been right about Henri— the engagement in itself had made him quieter, more hesitant, so, no _, no, of course,_ he wouldn’t go through with the ceremony. Right? _Right?_

He swallowed, running a hand through his face, and flinching slightly when he felt the fresh tears that the brutal emotion and truth of the last five minutes had forced out of him. He felt released, but on edge. Like he had done nothing more than rent happiness, and time had just started but it was already running out. He wasn’t about to wait until tomorrow, wasn’t about to march down the aisle and demand for the wedding to stop— the mere idea made him laugh with a hint of derision. _As if_ someone would listen to him if he pulled something like that. No, no, better to think up something else. 

It was like a music piece, almost: the notes were right, the melody _fit,_ but something was off. _Maybe,_ he thought, as he started to hum the beginning of one of his older compositions, the first one that Jerry had heard Henri perform— _maybe all that’s needed is a change of tempo._

 

There was something almost scary about the building. It’s sleek, shiny, situated in a completely different part of town than his café, and Adam Hochberg might have been just a little intimated. Nonetheless, he swallowed his apprehension down and walked in, taking in the regal beauty of the architecture— his mind almost immediately jumped over to Jerry and how much he must’ve appreciated the art in it. He was a very details-oriented guy. Adam, like Henri, _cared_ about the details, but preferred the overall picture and the mood that it cast. Although, up until recently, the two had shared very different views on just what exactly that mood should be.

“ _Puis-je vous aider?”_

Adam nearly jumped, eyes falling on a short, stout, disagreeable looking man peering down at him from behind a desk.

“Eh, pardon?” He managed to call out, and the concierge mumbled something distasteful to himself, before sighing and looking back up at him with the air of someone who clearly believed he had better things to do than translate his native tongue from something beautiful to whatever the _hell_ English was, much at less at this hour. 

“What can I help you with, sir?” 

“Oh, uh, I’m looking for a Miss Davenport? Milo Davenport?” The concierge gave him a wary look. “She’s getting married tomorrow, I’m working on a lil something for the ceremony.”

“And you simply could not wait until morning to show her it?” He sniffed, but had already turned to check what he presumed were the resident’s records, hopefully in an effort to find the apartment number that Adam was looking for. 

“Creativity doesn’t have a bedtime.” He replied, feeling somewhat satisfied at the indignant cry of _“artists!”_ that this had elicited from the tired man. In their defense, he probably didn’t mean to come off as rude; if someone came knocking on Adam’s door at three hours to sunrise, he wouldn’t be the brightest ray of sunshine on the block either. 

“Name?”

“Hochberg— Adam Hochberg.”

The man nodded disinterestedly and turned back to his work, picking up the intercom and punching in a number. 

“Miss Davenport?” The concierge spoke into the intercom, and Adam tapped his shoe impatiently and unconsciously as he waited. It took a while, but finally, the intercom let out a series of static noises before a, not at all tired, voice sounded out through the empty lobby. 

“ _Yes?”_

“There’s an Adam Hochberg here to see you.”

A pregnant pause followed, during which Adam and the concierge stared each other down.

_“Adam?”_ Milo’s voice echoed back, surprised but not _too_ surprised. “ _Send him up.”_

The concierge eyed him, uncertainly, before hanging up the intercom and grabbing a pencil and slip of paper. In neat handwriting he printed out the room number the elite ballet patron lived in, and handed it to Adam, mustache quivering. Adam merely took it, unbothered, and gave the stranger a salute. Making his way over to the staircase, he looked down at the paper; room 204, not too high up. He breathed a silent thanks to Milo for positioning herself in an attainable manner, and jogged up to the second floor, eyes scouring the engraved plates next to the door and ignoring how his leg already seemed to be on its way to giving out. 

Room 204 was relatively easy to find, and, before he knew it, he was standing right in front of it. Scratching the nape of his neck, he briefly debated turning right around and sleeping in until June of next year, but managed to steel himself before knocking on the door, a disruption to the otherwise impermeable quiet. 

Milo’s head popped out, light eyes zeroing in on him. She smiled, a soft, simple thing, and opened the door to let him in, hand resting on his shoulder as he did so. He’d always liked her, thought she had poise and character. He had half a mind to tell her that, but it was late, and, instead, his brain opted for—

“You’re goddamn _rich,_ Milo.”

She laughed, although it felt tenser than her usual fits of glee, and Adam wasn’t sure whether she was just tired or if he’d hit a nerve. He would never equate having money to having problems, would never even think to make that connection, but, then again, what information did he have to go off?

“So,” she all but fell, gracefully, onto her sofa, looking up at him with an entertained expression plastered across her features. “What brings you to my part of town at four in the morning?”

Adam felt a nervous energy overtake him, and it was only then that he was struck with the idea that visiting the soon to be bride of a boy who he had only recently come to terms with being in love with, their wedding taking place in a mere matter of hours, was _not_ his most thought out plan. He briefly entertained the thought that Jerry Mulligan had somehow managed to rewire his brain, before sighing heavily and looking up at the expectant Madame Davenport. 

“Well, uh, you know how Henri asked me to write you two a song?”

Milo lifted a perfectly plucked eyebrow. 

“I did not, actually,” she said, intrigue crawling into her features, as she looked the man up and down. “Must be something he had planned as a surprise.”

Adam faltered, mentally kicking himself, because _of course_ Henri would pull some sappy bullshit like that, he was kind and considerate and caring, _especially_ to those that he loved. He swallowed heavily, ignoring the sharp fear that had suddenly taken a hold of him, because what if all of them had been _wrong,_ what if Henri really did love Milo— Adam didn’t think he could live with giving his heart away, only to have it be returned in the form of white gardenias and an upbeat rendition of a classic wedding song. 

“Of course, it’s not much of a surprise anymore.” She continued, barely skipping a beat after Adam’s anxious silence. “But that's okay, I think. I’ve never really been one for surprises, anyway.”

He laughed awkwardly, averting his eyes. It was fitting, the idea of Milo not being fond of surprises, because the way Adam saw her, he wasn’t sure she _could_ be surprised. She had this air of knowing radiating off of her, like she could tell you your deepest secrets after a five minute conversation. He usually didn’t think much of it, but her seemingly omniscient personality had suddenly made him feel deeply uncomfortable. 

“I think it was less of a surprise, more of a gesture.” He added, tapping his foot nervously. Milo sat up straighter, and nodded her head towards the empty spot next to her on the couch. Tentatively, Adam sat down next to her, drumming his fingers on his jeans. “Probably wanted to go the extra mile and all.”

Milo hummed in agreement and it was only then that Adam noticed she was swirling what had to be lukewarm wine in a shiny cup. He narrowed his eyes, looking back up at her. She seemed far away, almost, like her body was tethered to this couch, to this plane, but her mind was running free. Her gaze was fixed on some unfathomable point before her. Adam briefly entertained the idea that this was something the elite regularly did— drink themselves into oblivion, that is, especially on the night before their wedding— but he discarded the thought immediately. 

“So,” she said, dreamily, “Henri asked you to write a song.”

“Yeah,” Adam shrugged, tearing his eyes away from her and focusing instead on the callouses in his hands. “Yeah, he wanted me to write you two something special.”

Milo was silent for a moment, contemplating this. She took a sip of wine. 

“Well,” she licked the top row of her teeth, “Did you?”

“I tried.”

“But you couldn’t.”

“That’s usually the implied part that comes when one says they tried.”

Milo nodded, quirking her head to the side, a thoughtful expression on her features. Adam had always admired how collected she always seemed, how nonchalant and intelligent the air she gave off was. Calm, cool, and with her wits about her, always. A force to be reckoned with.

“It’s fine,” she said, with a blasé air Adam knew he could never claim. “Use one of your other compositions. Everyone loves them. You’ll play, they’ll cheer. And the wedding will go on. Things like this usually do.”

“Things like this.” Adam echoed, a touch of bitterness slipping into his tone. “And that’s that?”

Milo didn’t answer, didn’t _need_ to. She took another swig of her drink. The clock on the wall opposite to them was counting down their seconds of silence, steady and true. 

“Yeah, no, that’s a great idea.” He continued, suddenly, sitting more upright and focusing intently on the detached heiress before him. “I’ll use one of my older songs. They all blend together anyway, which is probably a good metaphor for the days within the constraints of this sham of a marriage.” 

Milo let out a hollow laugh at that, but said nothing else, and her casual demeanor was driving Adam to the brink of his sanity. 

“Maybe, _maybe,_ I’ll just mash two completely contrasting and incompatible pieces of music, throw them together like they’ll fit if I pretend hard enough. Wrong lyrics, wrong melody, wrong— _wrong tempo.”_

He was standing now, although he couldn’t quite pinpoint when that had happened, or when he’d started talking so quickly that breathing had become an afterthought. He stood there, glaring at Milo, heaving like a madman. Outside, on the balcony, a cricket chirped. Paris still slept peacefully. 

“My,” she said, her lips easing into a seamless smile. “You sure do have a way with metaphors, don’t you?” 

“He doesn’t love you _. He doesn’t love you.”_ Adam threw his arms out, desiring to have the upper hand in what was clearly a one sided argument, but the break in his voice and the knot in his throat told another story. And based off the careful narrowing of Milo Davenport’s eyes, whatever she was hearing was _not_ what he was directly saying. 

“Oh, Adam.” Her voice held no animosity, no inflated sense of self. She did not say it to make a mockery of him, but the genuine concern in her tone was unbearable. “What are you doing to yourself?”

He pressed his lips together, trying to regulate his breathing— _one and two and three and_ — doing his best to hold everything back in, just like he always did, just like he always _should_ have. What had this gotten him? An almost confession and a socialite’s pity. Half past four in the morning, and nothing had changed. 

Except, maybe, Adam himself. 

(But what good did that do?)

“Do you remember the music they played for the ballerinas, back in the audition room?” The question was rhetorical, he could see it in her eyes. “How slow and serene it was. All the other dancers, talented as they may be, were almost restless, in a way. Like they longed to show the full extent of what they could do, if only the music were….different. If only things were different.” 

Milo paused, letting out a tired sigh, and putting her glass down. She motioned to the empty spot on the couch, and waited for Adam to sit, before she continued. 

“Lise wasn’t like that. _Isn’t_ like that. She came in a flurry of lace and glee, an air of reservation surrounding her, and an urge to prove herself to somebody, anybody. She wasn’t like the others. She adapted to the music, and made it her own. Where the others saw it as a setback, Lise Dassin didn’t question things for one minute. Like she knew she couldn’t _afford_ to. Watching her…” Milo closed her eyes, breath hitching in her throat. “I don’t think I had ever lived before that moment.”

She turned to look at him. 

“Are you familiar with the feeling of seeing someone, and realizing that they’re the part of you that’s always been missing? Of not knowing you were incomplete until you find what completes you?”

Adam didn’t answer, but the answer must have been plain on his face, either way.

“Then, tell me, Adam Hochberg— do you know what it’s like to not be the other half of your own other half? To spend day after day with them, but not _with them,_ to feel as though you are one of the ballerinas from that day, longing for the music to be faster and knowing that you will never truly be on the same track as the person you love? And do you know what it’s like to just not give a damn, to love them anyway because what else can you? _What else can you do_?” Her voice was quiet, small, as thought it physically pained her to bring it all to the surface, as though she never had before. 

“Milo—”

“I know Henri doesn’t love me. Not in the way his parents want him to. Hell, not in the way _he_ wants to. I can’t say it bothers me much. Jerry didn’t love me either. Lise… was a lost cause from the beginning and I knew it, and still, here I am. Distinct proof that life goes on, despite our hidden desires, despite our hesitations and deepest, darkest secrets. Life and love don’t always go hand in hand with survival, I think.” She smiled wryly. “Some of us just have to learn to _adapt.”_

“But then how can one be happy?” Adam demanded, almost desperately, acutely aware of how unlike himself he sounded. “How can one be free?”

“There’s a war going on. . .” 

“The war is _over_.” 

“ _Our_ war is never over.” Milo told him, with a disapproving click of her tongue. “We’re all still fighting, aren’t we?”

_Aren’t we?_

“I don’t know, _are you?”_ Adam pressed. “Because this whole idea, getting married out of convenience— it seems a whole lot like _giving up_ , doesn’t it? Milo, this will _ruin_ the both of you.”

“On the contrary,” she said, with a disbelieving shake of her head. “We’ll both be exceedingly well off financially. We’ll both have a place to come home to at the end of the day, where we know we’ll be accepted by each other, if by no one else. Is that not the American Dream?”

“We’re in _Paris.”_ Adam replied, dryly, and Milo let out a lilting laugh.

“With so many of us ‘foreigners’ running around, it’s tough to remember sometimes.” She quipped. “And that, my dear, is besides the point and you know it. This wedding is both logical and socially acceptable.”

“But do you _want_ to go through with it?”

Milo fell silent, and Adam noticed her eyes shifting back towards her wine. 

“Do you want _him_ to go through with it?” She retorted, and it was in the deflection of his question that Adam knew Milo was dreading tomorrow more than she wanted anyone to know. 

“No,” he said, before he could quite stop himself. “No. I told him once that people deserved real love and real happiness and I meant it.”

“Well,” she said, sounding more lucid than she had since he’d first gotten there. “Maybe it’s time you listened to your own advice. For all of our sakes.”

And, for the first time in the very short and non intimate moments that he had known Milo Davenport, Adam felt as though he could see past her glassy, cool exterior, could see through to a girl who just wanted to be loved for who she was, a woman who held so much power over others and yet none within herself. The corners of her mouth were edging him on, the glint in her eyes was pleading with him to do _something_ , to save them all. 

“You know, I think you might be right.”

“Darling, I usually am.”

Before he knows it, he’s farther and farther away from Milo and her state of held back despair, and standing before the door to the Baurel Mansion, fist already rising, ready to knock, when he stops and remembers it’s well past the hour in which Henri had told him and Jerry he was retiring to bed, for he had “such a busy day ahead of him.” 

The doubt slowly and surely began to creep in, because this _wasn’t_ him, what the hell did he think he was _doing,_ standing outside this house where he knew he was barely welcome, and for _what?_

He had half a mind to go running back home, back to his dimly lit apartment and out of tune piano, and let the feeling of loneliness and inadequacy envelop him completely and swallow him whole. And he almost did it, too. 

And then he remembered Milo’s sad eyes and Henri’s guarded stare, and if he couldn’t do this for himself, then he had to do it for them. 

He knocked once, then twice, and was getting ready to knock a third time and then promptly _run_ , when the door swung open and Henri Baurel himself, complete with mussed up hair and bags around his eyes, stood before him. 

“Shit, looks like Milo and I weren’t the only ones not getting enough sleep, huh?”

(In hindsight, that probably wasn’t the _best_ way to start their conversation.)

“Adam.” Henri said, quizzically, and with an impossible twinge of concern and even _hope_ , and that was all it took for Adam to kiss him like there was no tomorrow, to do what he should have done back when he first heard Henri sing out the words that Adam had written specifically for him, and _only_ him. 

( ÉPILOGUE )

When composing a song, it’s important to note that you are not in control. You may _feel_ like you are, or, at least, like you _should be_ , but you aren’t. You do not write the notes; they write themselves. There is a clear start and there is a clear finish, and it’s the art inside of you that wills you to stop and go, not the other way around. We have no control over it. 

Life, Adam Hochberg now knew, was a hell of a lot like the music he had always dreamed of making a living off of. Wild and uncontrollable and frustrating and, sometimes, _just sometimes,_ incredibly worth it. As his hands fly over the piano keys with unusual jaunt, he feels a certain sort of peace settle within his soul. He squints against the darkness at the sheet music before him, rolling his eyes; all the light was being used to focus on the spectacle itself rendering Adam incapable of reading the notes on the page, but it didn’t bother him too much. He knew, in the end, that he could play this piece with his eyes closed. 

“Old man trouble, I don’t mind him,” Henri sang, and Adam could practically _hear_ the smile on his face and, Lord, was it contagious. “You won’t find him round my door!”

This show in particular was different than the weekly ones they did for pay at the nightclub. It had been Henri’s idea to resurrect the old piece, their first piece, as an homage to Jerry Mulligan and the day he decided to stay in Paris, played back to him on the day before he had to leave. Him and Lise would be off tomorrow morning— _it’s not forever,_ Jerry had promised them several times. _Although that depends on how many desperate postcards you all send to the states_. 

Part of him was at a loss; Jerry and Lise had been such pivotal people in his life for the past few years, that the thought of parting with them was almost unbearable, but he knew, _he knew_ , that it was for the best. Music had a beginning and an end, but just because something ended didn’t mean it was _done_ forever. The two lovebirds would be back, and Adam and Henri would reprise their song for their friends to hear, for the world to hear. 

_I got rhythm, I got music!_

Adam used to think he never wanted to leave Paris. He knows now that it doesn’t matter where he lives, whether it be France, or America, or Cuba, or _wherever_ , because the only thing he really needs in life is his music and his cabaret singer, who he knows will give him hell when he deserves it, who he knows won’t let him drink himself to death, who he knows will always be there to pick up the tempo and brighten up the accompaniment— his cabaret singer, who has always been Henri, who he has always loved and who has always loved him. 

There are some lyrics that can be found etched on the lips of those who breathe them, those unequivocal truths found in the hearts of two young lovers who have been humming the same tune right from the start, and whatever those two harmonies are made of, there is no denying that they were meant to be played together. 

_I got my man_ — _who can ask for anything more?_

_FIN._

**Author's Note:**

> [ 100000000 music metaphors later ] aaa i hope yall liked !! also holy shit Where is all the aaip fic yall rly r out here forcin me to do things myself smh 
> 
> find me on tumblr ( @uranowitz ) nd twit ( @sprlngbway )


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